


tired of the wait-and-sees

by driedflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedflowers/pseuds/driedflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has nowhere to go on a cold night, and he just happens to know where Harry Potter lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tired of the wait-and-sees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allmadhere1225](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmadhere1225/gifts).



> Title from At Least It Was Here by The 88.
> 
> Beta'd by Tavia_d on livejournal. Thanks! :)

“Pansy, I swear—”

It’s too late. The door slams shut in my face, and I scowl at it. I consider using magic to open it, or at least to conjure a coat, but I realize with a start that I don’t have my wand. I can see it in my mind’s eye, sitting on my night table on top of a heavily dog-eared potions book.

The wind howls, and a few flakes of snow begin to drift from the heavens. I pound one last time on the door and set off resolutely down the pavement. There’s a cafe I like down the street, and I can sit there at least until it gets dark. If Pansy doesn’t let me in then, I don’t know what I’ll do.

The tiny flakes grow as I walk, and by the time I get to the cafe, snow is falling in fat, wet clumps that are almost certainly ruining my hair. To put a cherry on top of the sundae of suffering, there’s not one empty table in the whole place. I scan the room for someone pitiful enough to be scared away by a signature Malfoy scowl, but a shock of red hair catches my eye instead.

“Oi, Malfoy!” Weasley’s grinning at me, which is very odd to begin with, and seems to be gesturing for me to come over to their table. Casting a final look around the room, I stride over to the table. Granger moves a small beaded bag aside so I can put down my coffee.

“Weasley. Granger.” I give each of them a measured nod.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Draco,” Granger says, smiling at me. “It’s not Hogwarts anymore; the war is over.” She squeezes Weasley’s hand across the table. “No need for such hostilities.”

“Fine.” I don’t smile back.

“So, Draco. Do you live around here?” Granger asks.

“Yes.”

“So do we. And Harry does, too. He’s got a great flat,” she gushes, exchanging a knowing look with Weasley. “It’s up on High Street, in a bright blue building, you can’t miss it. It’s a fourth-floor walkup, that’s why he was able to get such a good lease.”

“Great.” I would almost rather freeze to death outside than listen to Granger prattle on about the bloody savior of the wizarding world. I think about Potter enough these days on my own.

Maybe Granger finally senses my disinterest, because she stops trying to make conversation. She and Weasley keep exchanging looks, but they pretty much leave me alone. I pretend to read the section of the Prophet they give me.

It gets dark before I know it. The cafe’s emptied out somewhat, and I could sit at another table if I fancied it. I don’t, though. Not because I’m afraid of offending Granger and Weasley—the opposite is true, really—but because it’s nice to have someone to be annoyed with. Someone who I don’t have to share a flat with, at any rate. I can’t stand to beg for Pansy’s forgiveness, not today.

They leave too, eventually, and so do I when I’m the last person there the lady wiping down the tables starts giving me dirty looks.

I stroll aimlessly until I can’t feel my toes. I find myself on High Street, in front of an electric blue building. It’s garish, honestly. I haven’t the faintest clue why anyone would want to live here. And I don’t particularly want to see Harry Potter, but I duck into the lobby anyway.

I open the door to the stairwell. Not because I want to see him, because I don’t. I walk up and down, up and down, until my toes start to thaw out. I can’t do this all night. I walk up one more time, and I don’t stop until I reach the top of the stairs. I don’t know whether or not I want him to answer when I knock.

Part of me, a terribly masochistic part, wants a man to answer the door. Not Potter himself, of course, but the boyfriend. Just so that I can know that I was right, that I wasn’t an idiot for seeing something between us all those years at school. So I can finally know the answer to the question of if it was me or if he just didn’t like boys.

I just want somewhere to stay for the night. I don’t need to do this to myself; I’ve moved on. It’s just a coincidence that every bloke I’ve dated has had dark, shaggy hair and savior complex.

Another crazy, hopeful part of me that I’d thought had died out long ago wants him to open the door, see who it is, pin me up against the wall and snog me until my lips are as numb as my fingers.

Maybe no one’s even home.

No, I hear someone moving around inside. Coming to the door. I stand in the line of sight of the peephole and try not to look threatening.

The door opens, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed with who answers.

“Draco,” Potter says, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t expect...” He runs his hand through his hair distractedly. It’s still an absolute mess.

“Potter. I need somewhere to stay tonight,” I snap. I don’t want him to slam the door in my face, but I kind of do.

Potter seems to consider it, and steps aside. I walk into the flat.

I don’t know what I expected. _Daily Prophet_ clippings of his face on the walls? A shrine to Dumbledore in the corner? I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it. Potter’s apartment is distressingly _normal_. Well, if I can call a place where a wizard lives surrounded by Muggle contraptions _normal_. I have no idea what most of them are. Okay, maybe I’ve heard about electric lighting and about that box with a glass panel in the corner (which I think is called a telly), but this colorful cardboard box the table that says _Friends - complete series_ … What is that? And the humming sound coming from the kitchen area… Do all Muggle devices make such disturbing noises?

“Do you want to, er, sit down?” Potter gestures to the couch. Clearly I’ve been staring for too long—not that I care what he thinks—so I sit down. Gingerly. On the very edge.

“Granger told me—”

“How did you know—”

Neither of us finishes our sentence. It’s weird, being in the same room and not actively plotting his demise. I always thought one of us wouldn’t make it out of the war alive. At first, I’d thought it would be me. And then, for those excruciating months captive in my own home, I’d thought it would be him. It was terrifying, but what was more terrifying still was that I didn’t want it to be him. So I lied to them, said I couldn’t recognize Harry Potter with his face swelled up, and I no longer cared about winning or losing the war.

I wonder if he’s thinking about how I saved his life (or tried to), and how he actually saved mine.

“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out bitter and angry. I try again. “Thanks for saving my life.” I think he knows what I mean.

He nods at me. I’m not sure exactly what I expected him to say. What you’re even supposed to say.

“Why did you do it?” It’s a question that’s been gnawing at me for years. In his place, I think I would have let me die. And I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I can’t help hoping for the impossible, even after all this time: _“Because I’m hopelessly in love with you. Duh.”_

Potter sits down in an armchair to my right. He exhales mightily. “This is stupid.” He shakes his head, grinning. “I had— I had a massive crush on you in school.”

I don’t answer. I’m not positive I’m not dreaming.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.” He cards his hand through his hair, still grinning madly. “I must’ve been so bloody obvious.”

I finally find my voice. “I was a little preoccupied.”

“Yeah.” He sobers up; the memory of assassination plots tends to do that to people. “So, how do you know where I live?”

“I saw your friends at a cafe.”

Potter laughs. “Figures. I told them about _this_ ,” he gestures between us, “after it was all over.” He pauses, apparently deep in thought. “I totally thought you were into me. Are you telling me I imagined it all?”

“I never said that.”

I don’t know why I’m doing this; it’s a terrible idea. It’s been a long time since school, and just because I can’t shake this juvenile crush doesn’t mean Potter can’t either. The she-Weasel is probably in the other room right now with a wedding ring on her finger, just waiting to come in and sweep Potter into a fairy tale embrace. She’s the damn princess, not me. And the hero type always goes for the princess.

“Can you call me Harry?”

“What?”

“Call me by my first name. Not ‘Potter.’”

“Why? We’re not friends.” I can’t help but sneer. Because it’s true.

I turn away from him and get up to leave. I don’t know if I can stand this much longer without kissing him or punching him or _something_ , and I think either of those would get me kicked out anyway. Might as well get it over with.

“Couldn’t we be?” he says to my back. Potter’s always been delusional.

I turn around, and there he is. Less than a meter away from me. I think I can hear his heart beating, or maybe it’s mine. Potter’s eyes bore into mine, and I somehow no longer care about the consequences. I lean in.

I close the gap between us, and Potter doesn’t move away. I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe I’m dying of hypothermia, and this is some sort of sick hallucination cooked up by my brain to punish me for leaving it out in the cold. I deserve it.

I kiss him, and _he kisses me back_.

It’s not how I imagined it. I’ve imagined this moment too many times to count, but never like this. In my mind it was always crashing lips, iron grips on each other, someone pressed against a cold, hard wall. But everything’s slow now, almost resigned. I can’t bring myself to care enough to bring back the intensity. And now that it’s gone, I don’t know exactly what was so great about it anyway.

We stand there kissing, and I wait for him to break it off. To tell me that he’s married now, or engaged, or just not looking for this. But he doesn’t. So I do.

We’re both breathless, but I at least try to hide it. Potter looks wrecked, and pride swells in my chest. Until I remember what I need to say.

“Is she away?”

“Wha— Who?”

“Weasley.” He still looks confused. “Your girlfriend. Or maybe wife now, I can’t be bothered to keep up with the dealings of our Savior.”

Potter looks appalled. “You think I would cheat on her?”

“Well, I also didn’t think you would kiss me back, so...”

“Fair point. It didn’t work out,” he adds.

I lean in to continue our kiss, but he stops me.

“Why did you come here, anyway?”

I shrug. “Pansy kicked me out. She'll cool off soon.”

“You're one to bloody talk,” Potter says, backing away from me in disgust. “I can't– You're cheating on her?”

“I’m gay,” I say harshly. I don’t have to constantly self-sabotage, but I do it anyway. I’ve stopped asking myself why.

Potter doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look so angry anymore. I sigh.

“Can we get back to what we were doing, or are you going to stare at me the entire evening?”

He laughs, and reaches for my hand. I let him take it.

“Can I actually stare at you awhile? We’ve got time, right?” he says, pulling me towards him.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“We have all the time in the world.”


End file.
